Bump in the Night
by Accidental-Ducky
Summary: There are creaking footsteps overhead, pacing back and forth and not bothering to be stealthy. Someone is up there, but they'll be gone by the time Marta gets up the stairs to check it out. She'll go back to her room and the footsteps will start all over again. She reiterates, her house is haunted. Her house is haunted as fuck.
1. Bump in the Night

Marta isn't superstitious by nature, but she's pretty sure her house is haunted. When people were still tramping through it, she had reason to believe that they were the ones making the odd noises at all hours of the day, but now…. Now it's just her and Mama. Alice is out with some boy or another, catching a late movie and Mama's been in bed since eight.

There are creaking footsteps overhead, pacing back and forth and not bothering to be stealthy. Someone is up there, but they'll be gone by the time she gets up the stairs to check it out, Harlan's study empty just like it's been since his death. She'll check and then go back to her room and the footsteps will start all over again. She reiterates, _her house is haunted_. Her house is haunted as _fuck_.

But she's not superstitious. Nope. Also, burning sage just made her sneeze her head off, so she's not trying that again. Alice had suggested using an Ouija board one night, but Mama had blown a gasket and Marta's seen enough scary movies to know that Latinas messing around with the supernatural usually ends in untold horrors and at least one apocalypse.

So, she learns to cope with the noises. She has enough chores to do during the mornings and early afternoon to keep her busy, late afternoons are spent outside enjoying the sunshine and gardening, and the evenings are usually filled by Alice and Mama fighting about the shows they can't agree on. After Mama goes to bed and Alice disappears, Marta tries to drown the noises out with a healthy dose of Metallica blasting through her headphones. She'll probably be deaf in two years, but then she won't have to hear those footsteps or the reruns of CSI that her sister loves. Win-win, really.

It's during month four when she truly gets fed up with it all. She's outside and it's summer, her eyes tracking the lightning bugs in the darkness. A few rooms are lit up in the house and she's just about to head in herself when she notices something odd.

The light's on in the study.

The burst of frustration in her chest comes as something as a shock after the usual fear. She's a fraidy cat, she'll admit that to anyone, but she's not _weak_. With determination strengthening her spine, Marta goes over to the trellis and begins to climb. She's not crying like last time, nor does the trellis break under her sandals, holding firm as she continues up to the trick window on the third floor.

The window swings open on well-oiled hinges, not making a sound as she climbs through. She's not panicking, marching straight ahead to the closed door. She does hesitate when her fingers wrap around the cold knob.

The last time she'd done this, she'd seen her best friend cut his own throat. What will she see when she opens the door this time? Will it be Harlan, transparent and wavering like a hologram in bad lighting? Will he be angry with her for avoiding this room for so long? For not honoring his study like she knows she should have? Has he missed her?

With tears gathering in her eyes, she opens the door and steps inside.

The person waiting for her on the other side is worse than any ghost. They're tall and imposing, but they're also dressed in a threadbare sweater with sleep-mussed hair and the dopey expression of the half-asleep. She recognizes the look from when she'd been taking her nursing classes, practically a zombie by the time she'd earned her license.

"What the hell are you doing here, Ransom?" The question comes out harsh even to her own ears, but she's not the one guilty of breaking and entering (or murder and giving a false statement to the police). Ransom runs his fingers through his hair, shaggier now and limp without any product.

"Sleeping," he snaps. "What the fuck does it look like I'm doing?"

Benoit arrives two hours later, laughing his ass all the way to the police station because his little Watson had decked Ransom hard enough to knock him out cold.


	2. A Game of Go

A week after Benoit dragged an unconscious Ransom to the police, Marta thinks that maybe she'll be able to get a decent night's sleep since Mama and Alicia are both out on a mother-daughter spa trip. She's relaxing in her room, music playing softly as she reads through an old book she's had since high school.

"Marta…." She doesn't hear it at first, just a vague sound that barely passes through the layer of wood and rugs. She turns the page, humming along to whatever Mirrah is crooning. "Marta…." She does look up this time, expecting to find someone nearby. Maybe Mama finally convinced Alicia that a spa trip was too luxurious or Alicia forgot the coupon they'd won in a grocery store raffle.

"Mama," she calls. There's no response, just the whispering of wind through the leaves outside. She puts it down to her imagination and turns her attention back to Bilbo's riddle game. She's always like riddles and puzzles, they don't lie to you.

"Marta…." Twisting her lips to the side, she sets the book down and shuffles out into the hallway.

"Hello? Who's there?"

"Marta…." She suddenly wishes she'd taken up Benoit's offer to stay with her. He might not be the broadest man in existence, but he's certainly capable. Marta sucks in a steadying breath because she's capable, too. She stood up to a bunch of crazy white people, she punched one of them a week ago, she's got this. "Marta…."

"Fuck, I don't got this." She picks up the softball bat they keep in the hot water closet, creeping up the stairs. She's had a line of carpenters prancing through the house, so the stairs no longer creak so horribly.

The door of Harlan's study is cracked open, light spilling out over the carpet. Her first thought is of an intruder trying to steal some of Harlan's things, but then she hears stones scratching against wood and realizes exactly who is skulking around in the study.

"Drysdale, I swear to God, I'm gonna kick your ass!"

"Just get in here and shut up," he yells back. She stomps the rest of the way down the hall and pushes the door open, the warm light revealing the same cluttered mess Harlan had thrived in. Ransom is sitting at the low table, the Go board set up with the stones on either side of it. "Come on, let's see how good you really are."

"Why shouldn't I call the cops?"

"Because I'm adorable." He grins up at her like a kid posing for a school photograph, but there's a streak of dirt along the bridge of his nose and worry in his baby blues. "Please? I get bored at night." She sits down across from him, but keeps the bat close just in case. He's already tried to murder her once and she's not taking any chances that he won't try again.

"Black or white?"

"What do you think?" She takes the black pieces simply because they're _hers_, she was always black and Harlan was always white. "You go first. After all, it's your house."

"If it's my house, then why do you keep breaking in?" He shrugs, a fluid thing that speaks to years of not having to worry. He'd never had a job, never worried that he wouldn't have enough money for food and rent, never had to scrounge for work so he could keep his heat on in the winter. His privileged life has left him unprepared for the real world.

"Beat me and maybe I'll tell you." So she focuses on the board, placing stone after stone until she's got more on the board than Ransom. He's scowling at the pieces, one hand rubbing the scruff on his cheek. She didn't notice the stubble at first, so pale that it's nearly invisible until he turns his head a certain way and the lights catch it.

"Give up yet?"

"No." She places another stone on the board and his scowl deepens into a pout. The man is in his thirties and he's pouting like a little boy who's been told he can't have dessert until he eats his supper. It's pretty accurate if she really thinks about it. Ransom's always been a dessert first kind of man.

"Are you sure?" He cuts his eyes up to hers, features sharp as shadows are thrown over the dips and plains of his face. She smiles in response, feeling the triumphant joy of winning. She used to feel this way with Harlan when they played and with her sister when they were younger and obsessed with Candyland.

"I'm not giving up, Martha."

"You can get my name right when you whisper it like some kind of creep, but not when you're losing? Shame on you." He doesn't look put-out, he even manages a smile. Alicia might have found it charming, but Alicia hadn't been tackled by him either.

"Don't get your panties in a bunch." He rubs a hand over his mouth and she sees a glimpse of Harlan in him, the set of his shoulders and the little tics he displays when he's losing. Ransom could have been such a good man if his father hadn't coddled him, if his mother had let him spend more time with his grandfather. He could have been a man Harlan would have been proud of.

"How long have you been out of prison," she asks instead of voicing her thoughts.

"Few weeks," he mutters into his palm. "Good behavior or overcrowding, I'm not sure which to thank, but here I am." He spreads out his arms, but the accompanying smile doesn't quite muffle the sadness in his eyes. "It's your move again."

Marta studies the board, tapping her stone against the wood as she thinks. Ransom is good, Harlan hadn't lied about that, but he's not as good as Marta. The Thrombey family plays by their own rules, but Marta's always found an easier way through the muck and arrogance. She places her stone and Ransom falls back in his seat with a dramatic groan.

"Fine, you win." She grins, leaning back in her own chair with a tad more grace. It's getting late and she's tired, but she's not about to leave the study without an answer to her question.

"So, why do you keep breaking in?" His response is muttered, too low for her to untangle the rush of words. "I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you." He pulls a face and rolls his eyes just like Harlan used to when a novel wasn't coming along like he wanted it to.

"I _said_," he says again, speaking louder and slower," that I have nowhere else to go."

"You had a nice apartment."

"Couldn't exactly pay the rent when I was in prison. Mom refuses to speak to me while her and Dad slog through their divorce and Dad is just…. Well, you've met him." Richard Drysdale is the world's biggest baby, throwing tantrums and the occasional two-hundred-dollar vase when things don't go his way. "I stayed with Walt for a couple of days, but his son's a Nazi and I almost punted him out a window."

"Understandable urge." He catches her meaning and raises a brow, smirk sharp as any knife. "I've felt it once or twice around your family." Once or twice was an understatement, she's fantasized about punting all of the Thrombey clan—aside from Harlan—out a window at least fifty times since she started working for Harlan.

"Anyway, Meg and Joni won't even answer the door when I knock and I can't find a decent job even with my degree, so I figured I'd crash here a while. Imagine my surprise when I showed up that first night and found your family here."

"It's our house."

"Yeah, but you're a good person and I figured you would renounce your claim."

"I'm not that nice."

"Obviously." He scoffs and shakes his head, settling in the chair like he owns it. Her fingers twitch in her lap and her heartstrings are tugged. The rest of the Thrombeys had suffered no real consequences, they each had their own businesses to focus on and Walt had even found a new publishing company to work for, but Ransom had nothing.

It would be easy to kick him out of her house, turn him out on the street with nothing. He would have done that to her had she been the one squatting in his house. He'd probably call ICE and get her mom deported. Unfortunately, as Benoit had pointed out, she has a kind heart. _I fucking hate being a good person. _

"One more game and then I'll order us some pizza. If you win, you can stay in your grandfather's study."

"And if I lose?"

"You have to go through all your grandfather's stuff in the basement."


	3. Basement and Family Repairs

Alicia Cabrera isn't stupid, she knows the white dude slumming in their house is up to something. Or he was up to something. Or maybe he's taking a break from being up to something? Okay, so the guy just gives off sketchy Get Out vibes and she kind of wants to hit him with a spatula. Or a broom. Or physically demonstrate the meaning of the word _defenestration_. She's not picky.

Hugh Drysdale smiles a lot and he helps around the house, he even keeps Marta from sinking too far into a funk. He seems to be a good guy that has jokes at the ready for all occasions, but she _knows_ there's something wrong with him. He's smiling right now, lounging on the couch like it personally belongs to him and Alicia should feel privileged to share this space with him.

"Have you ever robbed a bank?"

"Nope," Drysdale answers, not even glancing away from the TV. Alicia twists her lips to the side and narrows her eyes, studying him for any tells. There's nothing, there's always nothing after one of her questions, and she's beginning to think this man is just a super good liar. "Got another question or are you content to watch Community?"

"Turn it up," she says after a moment. "I like hearing Troy and Abed singing to the mouse."

* * *

It's a Tuesday afternoon and Alicia is totally not ditching her classes, hidden away in the basement where no one ever goes. It's dank down here and smells like her grandmother's closet, but it's quiet and she likes it. She's pulled an old armchair under the window, providing both a soft landing and a nice place to read once she wriggles through the narrow window.

The afternoon sunlight makes the pages of her book look yellow, catching on the black ink and turning it to shades of blue and purple. She's warm and content and nothing can possibly ruin this moment as long as she's got Shirley Jackson to keep her company.

"Son of a protestant whore!" Except maybe the obnoxious white guy currently picking himself up off the floor somewhere near the front of the room. "Jesus Christ, this is a hoarder's wet dream!" He can't see her from where he's roughly brushing dirt off his shoulder, but Alicia has a pretty good angle. She's willing to bet he'd tripped over the ottoman that matches Alicia's armchair.

"Are you okay," Marta calls from the top of the stairs. She doesn't come down, though, the chance of seeing a spider is too high for her. "Do I need to call backup?"

"I'm fine! Just tripped over the damn ottoman." Marta says something else, softer, and then the door of the basement closes. The overhead light flickers on after a few more curses, harsh fluorescent tubes that flicker menacingly. "I could'a sworn this thing had a chair to go with it."

Alicia doesn't say anything, just goes back to her book and does her best to tune out loud cussing and the occasional _thunk_ of heavy furniture being moved. In fact, she forgets all about the intruder until there's a shadow cast over her and a hand is snatching the book right out of her hands.

"Hey," she yells, trying to snatch it back. Drysdale dances a few feet away, eyes sparkling with amusement as he closes the book on his finger to read the title. "Give that back! I've got a book report due tomorrow!"

"So why aren't you at school?"

"I have a free hour." It's not totally a lie, her art history class is taught by a teacher that's too stoned out of her mind to notice a few missing students. She just marks everyone as present and then sneaks off to the abandoned bathroom to 'powder her nose'. Alicia has five bucks riding on Mrs. Wells snorting lines in class by next week.

"Yeah right, you don't get a free hour until your senior year." Alicia stands and lunges for her book, nearly tripping over a lampshade when Drysdale moves again. He's fast on his feet, easily dodging all her attempts until they're back where they started. He eyes the armchair, still holding her book above his head. "How long have you been coming down here?"

"A while." She shrugs, crossing her arms defensively when he sends her a pointed look. "It's quiet down here and there were a lot of construction people stomping through the house when we first moved in. There were also lawyers and some weird guy with a cane that tried to smash my sister's foot."

"What happened to him when he tried that?"

"Mama threw a garden gnome at his head and missed by an inch. She also made him replace Dwayne."

"She named her gnome Dwayne?" He's arching his brows and the amusement is back, arm relaxing just a smidge. She eyes her book and then meets his stare again, determined.

"All the gnomes are named after wrestlers. It started as a joke when Papá and Mama first came to America, the stereotypical white picket fence with the gnomes and the kids and the dog. Except they were broke and the housing market wasn't exactly friendly to people of color, so they settled on a decent apartment and gnomes. We've got Dwayne, John, Steve, and Rey."

"That's great. That's a story you tell to coworkers in a bar so they think you're normal. Maybe water cooler chats? Does that happen in real life? You know what, I'm gonna Google it." He takes his phone out of his pocket and starts to type, never noticing that Alicia is slowly edging behind him. She climbs up onto the chair, bending her knees and eyeing the book. "I guess they don't. Isn't that weird? Alicia?"

She jumps and lands squarely on his back, wrapping her limbs around him until he's forced to submit or fall into the moldering pile of newspapers. Alicia snatches the book out of his hand, dropping gracefully to her feet and hiding it behind her back. He turns and studies her the same way she's been studying him for the past two weeks.

"Gymnastics?"

"Ballet," she says, brushing a cobweb out of her hair. "My teacher says that I'm a natural."

"Uh-huh. Well, I've got a proposition for you." He pauses, watching as she frowns and looks him over. "You help me sort through this crap and I won't tell your mom that you've been routinely ditching class to hide out in this health hazard." He gestures around him at the various ways that can lead to her death; black mold creeping up the newspapers in veins, the broken remains of a light tube that had fallen from the ceiling at some point, exposed wires no one had gotten around to fixing yet.

"Fine."

"Let's start with those papers. I say we stuff 'em in a Hefty bag and then burn them out back." She nods, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves that are sticking out of an old sewing basket, helping Drysdale dispose of the papers. They work in relative quiet, Drysdale humming every now and then depending on the song stuck in his head.

"Have you ever laundered money?"

"Not even close, kid."

* * *

Hugh Drysdale is some weird sort of enigma. He showed up at exactly one o'clock, watching as Alicia drops down onto the armchair. She jumps when she notices him, nearly toppling backwards to the cracked concrete.

"What the hell, man?"

"I was thinking that we should do something with this room," he says, completely casual like he isn't lurking in a dark basement and waiting on a teenage girl. Dude's pretty much Michael Myers right now and Alicia's tempted to crawl right back through the window.

"We already cleaned it, though."

"Yeah, but it has potential. I figure we get a professional in to fix the floors and electrical issues so I don't feel like I'm living in a horror movie every time I come down here. After that we could paint the walls, run some cable down here for a TV and maybe put a stereo in. It'll be nice."

"No one else comes down here. No matter how you fix it up, basements freak Mama and Marta out." He shrugs, today's sweater hugging his broad shoulders. Alicia had made the mistake of comparing him to a Dorito once and he hadn't talked to her for three days. "Why bother?"

"Because you're going to be down here. A teenager needs their space and this could be that for you."

"I have a bedroom."

"But there's an open door policy when your mom's home. If you're down here, she'll never know." He gestures for her to follow him over to the far wall across from the window, pressing against a wood panel and then stepping back. Alicia moves closer, spotting the faint crack that's appeared.

"Is that a secret door?"

"Yup." She pulls the section of wall open to reveal a set of stairs that lead up into darkness. Drysdale reaches past her to flip on a switch, pointing to the dead end at the top of the stairs. "That's the back wall of the utility closet near your room, there's also a switch up there that works the light."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Kids need a space to express themselves without worry of being shamed. My parents smothered the hell outta me when I was growing up and look how I turned out." He holds his arms out, a surprisingly humble expression softening all his sharp edges. "I'm a fucking mess, but you still have a chance."

"Were you a conman?"

"No, Alicia." She frowns and glances around the basement; bare walls with chipped white paint, antique furniture that's been ravished by time, the flickering lights that always seem to be threatening to go out entirely. "So what do you say? Want my help?"

"Yeah, sounds good."

* * *

It takes almost three months to get everything up to code and decorated to Alicia's standards. The walls have been painted neon green, the floor covered in a bubblegum pink rug, the lights more modern and less horrific. She asks Drysdale if he'd been an interior decorator and he laughs.

She's pretty sure she's getting warmer.

* * *

Hugh Drysdale has been living with the Cabreras for almost six months when Benoit Blanc stops by for a visit. The detective is wearing a comfortable tee and sweats when Alicia opens the door, smiling at her as he steps inside. Alicia likes the detective, he's got an abominable southern accent and plenty of juicy gossip to share with her.

"...And I've got the basement looking great," she's saying. Benoit is nodding along, truly invested in her words until something catches his eye over her head. His smile fades at the edges, turning into something harder that Alicia's never seen before. "What? What's wrong?"

"What's he doin' here?" Alicia turns and finds Drysdale standing at the foot of the stairs. He looks like he's not sure whether to stay completely still or bolt, a baby deer caught in the crosshairs of a hunter. There's history in these responses, a lifetime of push and pull until they both look ready to break.

"Do you know Hugh? He's been staying here until he can get back on his feet." Benoit's lips are pressed together so tightly that all color has gone out of them and she thinks of the first night she'd ever met him. Marta had been wrapped in an unfamiliar blanket, tucked under his arm as he helped her to their apartment.

"He's the one that tried to stab your sister, Alicia." Alicia goes rigid and she focuses the full force of her gaze on Drysdale, on _Ransom_, eyes narrowed. If possible, Drysdale tenses even more until his shoulders look ready to break out of the threadbare sweater. Her anger washes out just as quickly as it had surged; his clothes are all secondhand now, there are holes in his socks, the knees of his jeans are worn out from use rather than fashion, his hair crisp with cheap products. This isn't the same man that had tried to murder two people, this is just a person who's hit rock bottom and has nowhere else to go except the home he's idolized since infancy.

Instead of saying all of this, she moves until she's less than a foot away, glaring up at him. Part of her likes watching him squirm like a bug pinned to cardboard, stuck in this place with these people and all his bad life choices. She lashes out, punching his arm hard, then doing it again for good measure.

"You don't hurt your friends," she tells him firmly. "Try it again and I'll tell Mama everything." Much like Benoit's lips, the color leaves Drysdale's cheeks until he looks almost skeletal. His blue eyes are focused solely on her, like the six foot giant behind her isn't nearly as terrifying as a Cuban mother with easy access to various garden gnomes. Drysdale, who knows very well how Benita Cabrera handles her gnomes, gives a solemn nod and an oath to be on his best behavior.

Alicia considers this a victory.


	4. Resumes and Rose Red

Alicia doesn't confront Marta for the entire duration of Benoit's visit, she doesn't really have the chance since Mama keeps her busy. When they have guests over, Benita slips into Martha Stewart mode and that means all kinds of food, cleaning, and using manners. Unfortunately, manners mean that Alicia can't whack her sister over the head with a dish towel and demand to know why their new roomie is the same guy that tried to shank her.

Alicia really fucking hates being a good kid. It's hindering her natural ability of being a total asshole.

"... And that's when I realized it was just a real estate scam," Benoit's saying, waving his empty fork around for emphasis. She's been watching that fork move for nearly ten minutes now and he still hasn't used it for its intended purpose. She's just starting to think he doesn't like her mother's cooking when he takes a large bite and lets out a low moan of appreciation.

"So you chased a Scooby-Doo villain around the Bay Area for two weeks," Ransom asks. "Lord, I wish I had _that_ job. It's way better than renovations." But he's smiling and even sends a wink in Alicia's direction. It's familiar, something that shouldn't have her smiling, but it does. She's grown so used to this guy being around that they're teasing each other. Another month and their cycles will sync up.

"Do you have a job, Mister Drysdale?" Ransom glances up from the food, setting his fork down on the paper napkin Mama insists they use. Marta had tried to convince her to use the linen napkins, but Mama had smacked her over the head with one and complained about the amount of laundry.

"I'm on the look-out for one."

"Which means he's still figuring out what goes on a resume," Marta says dryly. "I let him use my laptop two days ago and found him crying and ranting two hours later." Alicia remembers that day fondly, she'd recorded his fit on her phone and plans to use it as blackmail.

"I'm sure I could help with that," Benoit says. His eyes narrow just the slightest bit as if he's daring Ransom to say anything. Benoit looks ready for a fight, anything to throw hands with the rich dude that had nearly ruined Marta's life. If Alicia was into older men (and not seventeen), she'd climb him like a tree.

"That'd be wonderful," Ransom says with the same hard light in his eyes. Alicia brings her phone out from under her leg, ready to record the upcoming fight, but Benita snatches it out of her hand and sets it on the other side of her plate.

"No phones at dinner," Benita says. The look she gives to both men has all the testosterone leaking out of them, wisely dropping their gazes back to the ropa vieja. "Now, Hugh, what you need to do is get on Alicia's laptop. Her school pays for her to have Microsoft Word and it's got resume templates on it."

"Can I use your computer after supper?" He's looking past Marta to see Alicia and the teen gives a reluctant nod. She doesn't like anyone using her computer, she has her settings just the way she likes it and Ransom will fuck it all up. She'll have to kill him, there's no other way.

"Sure," she grits out after a hard look from Mama.

The rest of dinner passes just as miserably, Marta and Alicia in charge of dishes while Mama takes Benoit to the designated guest room. It's right down the hall from Alicia's room and she's been thinking of making a plaque with Benoit's name on it since he's the only one that ever sleeps in there.

That evening, once everyone has settled down and pulled on their pajamas, Ransom finds Alicia in the basement. She's already got the simplest template pulled up on the computer and a Stephen King movie on the TV. Ransom drops down next to her on the couch, pulling the computer onto his lap without preamble.

"Here," she says, passing him her phone. "It's a wikihow article on creating the perfect resume."

"Does it work?"

"It helped me get a job at Taco Bell, but I'm pretty sure that was because they were desperate." She shrugs, turning up the volume of the movie in case the wave of tearful ranting starts up again. Ransom is quiet for the most part this time around, typing away so fast that his fingers blur together in Alicia's peripheral.

"Shirley Jackson was right," the character on-screen is saying. "Some houses are born bad…." Alicia mouths along with the quote, knowing this movie by heart. It came out the year before she was born and she discovered it by accident when she was five and she's watched it at least once a year since. Marta can't even make fun of her for it because she does the same thing with Twister.

"Houses like this one, houses like Rose Red," Alicia whispers along with the character.

"How can you quote that junk pile," Ransom asks. That's about the time she notices that the typing has stopped, his fingers poised over the keys and his eyes on her. "That's gotta be one of the worst Stephen King movies imaginable." Alicia's gasp is dramatic and wholly warranted.

"This movie is a masterpiece. Sure, the CGI isn't great, but the plot and characters draw you in just fine."

"Hey, it's just my opinion."

"Your opinion is wrong, my guy." She turns back to the movie with a quiet sniff, trying to block out the way Ransom is rolling his eyes. He goes back to typing a moment later, switching through websites until he lands on Indeed and can submit his resume. It gives her another ten minutes to enjoy the movie before Ransom starts running his mouth again.

"It's just a rip off of Haunting of Hill House. If you want to watch spooky ghost shit, then watch the original. Hell, I've even got the book." Without looking away from the screen, Alicia grabs her copy of _The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer_ off the side table and smacks Ransom in the head with it.

"No thanks, I've got reading material." Ransom takes the book from her, snorting when he realizes what it is. The spine of the paperback is worn, the pages soft and curled from the amount of times she's thumbed through them. "Feel free to read it, but if you dog-ear the pages, then I'll crucify you."

"Very charming." He does flip through it, though, fingers turning the pages slower and slower until he's fully drawn in by the story. She's almost to the part of the movie where the group of psychics arrive at the house when Ransom sets the book aside. She thinks he might try to debate again, but he stays quiet with his eyes on the screen.

Benita finds them like that thirty minutes later, sound asleep with Alicia's legs in Ransom's lap and Ransom's bare feet propped up on the coffee table. Benita gives a little smile and covers the both of them up, but she doesn't turn off the movie. She studies the pair for a long moment, taking in her daughter's smooth brow, Ransom's hand lax against one of Alicia's shins. It's not a creepy hold, his fingertips are faintly curled as though protecting her.

"It's a good thing my girls like you," Benita says, stroking some of Ransom's blond hair off his forehead. "If you try to hurt them, I'll throw Dwayne at your head and I won't miss." Ransom, as though hearing her deep in his dreams, lets out a quiet murmur and nods. She knows who he is, has known since she watched him slip in pancake batter that first morning. She also knows how to hide a body just in case this boy gets a little too friendly with the kitchen knives.

"I gotta fix the chandelier," Ransom murmurs, shifting a little on the couch. "It's crooked." Benita snorts and walks back to the first floor with a smile on her lips. Benoit is waiting for her there, one brow raised as he nods towards the stairs.

"Ransom isn't going to be a problem."

* * *

Marta wakes up early Saturday morning, breathing in the scent of her flowery perfume and fresh coffee. The house is old, smells tend to carry just as well as sounds, and Marta is thankful this one time. She _really_ needs some coffee.

She doesn't bother getting dressed yet, just pulls a cardigan over her sleep top and shuffles down the stairs. Mama and Benoit are already in the kitchen, discussing something in English at the breakfast nook that Marta's not awake enough to translate. Her brain doesn't switch from Spanish until at least eight o'clock.

"Sweetheart, would you go get your sister," Mama asks, voice pleasantly sweet. _Too_ sweet for so early in the morning. Something's up. Marta turns with narrowed eyes, slurping down the coffee and ignoring the way it scorches her tongue. Tongues heal, she'll live.

"Where is she?" Mama looks down at the table, tapping one of her nails against the side of her glass. Mama doesn't drink coffee, it's too bitter for her, but she does favor orange juice. "Mama, where is she?"

"The basement." Marta shakes her head stubbornly, pressing the small of her back against the curve of the counter. "Marta, there aren't any spiders down there now. Your sister and Hugh cleaned it up wondrously. Anyways, you don't even have to go down there. Just stand at the top of the stairs and holler."

"It's the principal, Mama. I don't like basements." Mama glances up now, eyes narrowed into a warning. Benita Cabrera is very good at making that expression and Marta will still be caving to it when she's fifty.

Knowing she's already lost, Marta sulks out of the kitchen and to the basement door. The door is opened, the doorway a perfect square of blackness despite the sunlight falling across the hallway floor. She knows there's a lightswitch near the door, but that would mean putting her hand in there and trusting Satan not to bite it off.

Fucking hell, she shouldn't have watched Child's Play last night.

"You are a grown woman," she mutters to herself. "You can yell down some stupid stairs. It's not like killer dolls are lurking in the deep dark waiting to club you over the head with a rusty, old golf club." And then shapes are materializing and Marta is jumping back against the opposite wall with one knuckle clenched between her teeth.

"What the hell's wrong with you," Ransom asks, squinting against the sunlight. Alicia is right behind him, her hair mussed and her clothes wrinkled. They're both in the same clothes from yesterday, but it's somehow a good look on Ransom. "We really gotta get you used to basements."

"Is breakfast ready," Alicia asks. "I'm starving." She snatches the cup of coffee out of Marta's hand, her and Ransom waltzing into the kitchen like they didn't almost give Marta a heart attack. Marta stands there for a moment longer, slowly inching closer over the hall runner to shut the basement door with her foot. "Marta, bacon's ready!"

"Alicia," she yells, frustration replacing her earlier fear as she marches into the kitchen. "Give me back my coffee before I lock you in that basement!"

"You're too much of a chicken!"


	5. Two Halves of a Whole Idiot

Marta finds Ransom standing in the doorway of his room, one hand grasping the doorknob and his head tilted. "Huh…." He doesn't make any other sound even as Marta comes to stand next to him. The study is organized now, all of Harlan's old knickknacks tucked away in the basement out of the way, nothing out of place that Marta can see.

"What are we staring at?"

"The Go board." Marta's gaze travels to the board, finding it on the little coffee table like it's always been. The pieces are scattered over its surface in a familiar pattern, but not the one they'd formed the night before. Marta tilts her head, trying to figure out why the pieces are on the board at all. Ransom always puts them away when the game is over.

"Did you do that?"

"Nope. Do you think Alicia did it?"

"She's still in bed." It's a Saturday, Alicia never crawls out of bed until noon. Still, who else would mess with the board? Mama's knees hurt too bad to make it all the way up here and Marta had gone right to bed after last night's game. It's…. Well, she doesn't know what it is. "Are you sure you didn't do this? Maybe you're sleepwalking."

"That's undignified and I'm not undignified."

"I've seen you trip and belly flop into a pool. Try telling that lie to someone else." Ransom scoffs and shakes his head, moving into his room to clean up the pieces. He places them on the shelf near a picture of Harlan, a nightly ritual that's rarely changed. "I came up here to ask if you wanted to run into town with me."

"What for?"

"There are spiders in the kitchen, so I was going to get some peppermint tea bags." Ransom's brows furrow and Marta's fingers itch to soothe them out. She'd thought this man was handsome when she first started working here, had even slept with him a time or five, but his attitude always ruins everything. Trying to frame and murder her is also a huge mood killer.

"Peppermint tea bags?"

"Spiders and mice hate the smell of it. Are you coming or not?"

"It's not like I have anything better to do, I guess."

They head out to the local Walmart, Ransom looking out of place amongst the sea of ordinary people. Even in cheap clothes, Ransom Drysdale looks like a model and people take notice of that. Three women give him their phone number by the time they make it to the tea and coffee aisle.

"You're just jealous," he's saying as they browse.

"Of what? Your split ends?" His hand flies to his hair so fast that it almost blurs and Marta giggles. This is her new favorite pastime, picking on Ransom. She and Alicia have a bet going on who can make him cry first; the loser has to dye their hair bright green.

"I do not have split ends, Marta. That's blasphemy."

"Blasphemy was when you used Mama's crucifix to scratch your back." He's got nothing to say to that, just gives a slight nod. Marta grabs the cheapest box of tea bags she can find, stuffing them in the little basket hanging off her arm. "Do we need anything else?"

"Alicia wants the new Stephen King book. I promised to buy it for her if she brought back proof that she aced her math test." Marta hums and they head to the other side of the store. The books share an aisle with arts and crafts, something that drives Ransom up the wall on most days. "Why do they need to put markers next to the books? Leave the books alone and let them have a whole goddamn aisle."

"Will there ever come a day where you _don't_ complain?"

"No." He grabs the new book and slides it into the basket, then grabs two westerns and slips them in as well. He pouts a little when Marta raises her brow. "What? Not all of us like sticking to one genre of book. I read spooky books throughout October and westerns during November."

"It's October fifteenth."

"Exactly, I gotta prepare." Marta says nothing because she knows it would just lead down a rabbit hole of explanations she doesn't want to have in a fucking Walmart. She gives a simple nod of understanding and thanks God that Ransom doesn't know her well enough to read her tells yet. "Oh, hey, I need one of these bad boys."

"A camcorder?"

"Hell yeah. I wanna catch Alicia in the act of messing with our Go board." He waves at a worker and tells them which camera he wants, waiting patiently for them to get it out. They end up paying in the electronics aisle, Ransom insisting on hauling the bags out to Marta's car.

He's excited the whole way home, like a puppy on its first car ride. He barely waits for her to put the car in park before he's out and running, taking the steps two at a time all the way up to his room.

"What was that about," Mama asks. She's on the couch, giving one of her gnomes some TLC while Unsolved Mysteries plays in the background. The gnome in her hands is holding a daisy, its cheeks rosy and its overalls a dusty blue. Marta thinks this one is Steve.

"He bought a video camera for his room." She drops down onto the couch beside her mom, resting her head on Benita's shoulder. "Is Alicia up yet?"

"Yes, she went off with one of her friends." Mama waves a hand in the general direction of the woods, not noticing the splotch of red paint that falls onto the leg of her shorts. "She thinks I don't know that she smokes cigarettes."

"Want me to sit on her while you give her a speech? I'll do it." It's not a well-known fact to anyone outside of their family, but Marta's a vindictive person and she remembers the way Alicia had flung mashed potatoes at her last night.

"I'll think about it."

* * *

It's two days later that Ransom drags Marta into his attic room, gesturing at an office chair that he's placed behind a desk. There are three TV's set up on the desk, similar to the ones in the groundskeeper's office, all of them showing a clear feed of the room at large. Marta can see herself reflected back on screen three and makes a note to brush her hair.

"I've got proof!"

"Too early for English," she reminds him. Ransom switches to flawless Spanish as he begins fiddling with one of the cameras hooked up to screen two. The feed rewinds rapidly before pausing, a stripe of static cutting through it. "What am I looking for?"

"You'll know it when you see it." He presses play, waiting expectantly before letting out a sound of excitement. "You see? Proof!" She squints at the screen, trying to spot something more interesting than the fact that Ransom Drysdale has bedhead.

"I don't…."

"Oh, come on! It's obvious." He rewinds again and plays the tape in slow motion, pointing at the bookshelf. Marta squints and finally understands his excitement. The baggie of Go pieces fell off the shelf. That's it. She might have to start testing Ransom to make sure he hasn't stolen some of Alicia's Adderall.

"They fell, Ransom."

"No, they were nudged."

"We had an earthquake last night. I got the alert on my phone." He frowns and pulls his cell out of his pocket, swiping through his notifications. Mama recently got him hooked on some game called Township and the earthquake notification is hidden somewhere between one for returning ships and another for collecting his sheep's wool.

"Dammit."

* * *

Marta wakes up on day four to find the black pieces spread out along her nightstand, spelling out her name. Considering her door creaks ominously whenever it's opened, no one could have snuck in to do this.

Ransom might be on to something.

* * *

"You shouldn't smoke," Mama's saying as Marta comes into the kitchen. "Do you know what it does to your lungs? I've found some videos on YouTube…." Marta grabs her coffee and then makes a strategic retreat before she can be drawn into the drama. It's unhealthy for Alicia to smoke, yes, but Marta's not awake enough to be a disappointed sister.

She heads up the stairs to Ransom's bedroom, rapping her knuckle against the door. He opens it soon after, still dressed in his sleep pants with messy hair and a trail of drool on his chin. It says something about her social life that she finds this look attractive. _God, I need to get laid_.

"Did I wake you?" Ransom grunts, taking her coffee and moving over to his desk. There are two more screens now, these ones focused on the basement room and the secret door that leads to Ransom's room.

"As far as I can tell, Alicia's not the one moving my stuff around. She never comes to my room."

"Never? But you guys hang out all the time."

"We text." He holds up his phone, waving it a little. "If one of us wants to chill, we send a text to see if we can agree on what to do. Last week, we went bowling and made fun of people."

"You're both assholes, so that tracks." Marta might be a spiteful person, but Alicia goes into full on Judge Judy mode when she's out in public. When Marta was still in school, she'd sit with Alicia in the cafeteria just to listen to her talk shit about the other kids. "So who's moving your stuff around?"

"No friggin' clue." He drops down into one of the chairs and runs his fingers through his hair, messing it up even more. "My best guess is ghosts." It's a testament to how sleepy Marta still is that she doesn't shoot this theory down right away. She steals her coffee back and takes a long drink of it. They spend the rest of the afternoon reviewing the footage, trying to find any hint as to who the culprit is.

A little after midnight, long after they've both fallen asleep in front of the screens, the Go pieces begin to move. They don't spell out anything, just form a familiar pattern on the board that both kids should recognize but their logical minds keep out of their reach.

Downstairs, Benita and Alicia are flushing cigarettes down the toilet.


End file.
